


Bullets and Books

by TempuraSteel



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: AU, Books, Bullets, Creepy shit, Duty, Gladio is a stubborn idiot, Gladnis, Hurt/Comfort, Ignis hates the countryside, Lies, M/M, Magic, Older Gladiolus Amicitia, Older Ignis Scientia, Secrets, bodyguards, ignis plays piano, oh fuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-06-10 08:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15287904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempuraSteel/pseuds/TempuraSteel
Summary: After being wounded in the line of duty (again) and with the targets still at large, an injured and disgruntled Gladio is taken far away from the city and deep into the countryside to recover.  It's for his own good, they say.  It's temporary, they say.  Whatever. Gladio is pissed off, bored, and alone in a big-ass antebellum house in the middle of nowhere.  Or so he thinks.  The mysterious, piano-playing stranger next door isn't what he seems to be.  And Gladio is more than a little intrigued.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write something where Gladio and Ignis meet later in life and what that might mean for them both. Please keep in mind this is WIP and update times will vary, but I do promise to try and keep the wait short, if this is well-received! Comments have been know to light a fire under my ass and get me writing faster. ;) I hope you enjoy this nonsense!

The driveway is as long as a damn subdivision block, but the house at the end of it sure as hell isn't like his place. Tall and shaded by trees, the property sits by itself with no neighbors, no sidewalks. No nothing. When the boss said "the middle of nowhere," he wasn't even kidding. Goddamn it.

"Let me carry that."

Cor's gruff voice at his side. Not an offer, really. More like he was going to do it and there wasn't room for discussion. Typical.

Gladio grunts. "Yeah. Whatever."

Not like he can't manage with his good arm. But Cor isn't having any of his shit today, or any other day, for that matter.

"You're upstairs on the right," Cor says as he falls into step beside Gladio, bag in hand. "I tried to get you space on the first floor, but they're remodeling the--"

"It's fine," Gladio interrupts. "It ain't my leg that's broken."

Cor hefts the bag over his shoulder and fishes through his pocket for a key. "You're still going to take it easy. Behave yourself or I'll see to it that we extend your stay." He flicks icy blue eyes to Gladio. "I mean it, Amicitia."

"Yeah, yeah." Gladio waves his good hand in a dismissive gesture.

Not like he has a choice. Couldn't be out in the field with a busted shoulder, much less with his arm in a sling. At least the wound had been clean enough not to fuck up anything permanently. He hopes. At least, that was the line the doctors had fed him. But damn, there had been a lot of blood for a little bitty ass bullet from a tiny handgun.

He follows Cor up the winding staircase, the wooden steps complaining beneath his footfalls with every step, like it's going to collapse any minute.

"How old is this place?"

Cor glances over his shoulder. "Old."

Gladio rolls his eyes.

By the time they reach the third story, sweat has begun a slow trickle down the back of Gladio's neck, the small amount of physical exertion taking an unpleasant toll. Which is stupid. And annoying. Fuck, the stab wound across his chest hadn't hurt as badly as this. Or the one to his face.  Or the one in his forearm.  Or ---

Cor sets the bag down in front of a door that looks like it might cave in if Gladio breathes wrong and holds up a set of keys.

"The black one is the master. Silver is your room. You've got a kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, all of it. We'll have groceries delivered to you once a week, but if you need anything, call Nyx. He'll make sure you get it."

"And if I wanna leave?"

Cor levels his stare at him. "You won't."

 _Hmn._ Gladio hooks a loose strand of his long hair behind one ear as Cor finagles the keyhole and convinces the door to open, carting his bag inside and dropping it in the middle of the living room area.

"Fridge and cabinets are stocked. Clean sheets on the bed. Towels in the bathroom. There's a curator on the second floor who takes care of all that, so she'll be by to check on you now and then. She's also a nurse and she'll help you with dressing that wound and repacking it. Be nice to her."

Gladio runs a hand through his hair. "I'm _nice_ , dammit."

"Uh huh."

Cor reaches into his pocket and produces a bottle with a white label. "Take these if you need them."

Gladio eyes the label with a look of marked disdain. "You know I'm not taking that shit."

"I know you won't." Cor hands the bottle to him. "Have it anyway."

He sets the bottle on the nearest piece of furniture and folds his good arm across his chest. Too bad the damn sling ruins the effect.

"I'll be in touch," Cor says. " _Rest,_ Gladio."

Like he has a choice.

"I can't believe you're making me do this bullshit."

Cor's expression doesn't waver. "Believe it." He pats Gladio's shoulder with one hand. "And change your shirt. You're about to drip on the rug."

_Goddamn it._

"Smartass," Gladio says.

Cor cracks a hint of smile before leaving Gladio standing in the middle of this new quarters with a whole lot of silence and weird-ass furniture. Floral couch with wooden feet. A carved end table with wooden feet. Coffee table with some kind of folded flaps on the side. With wooden feet.

"Somebody got a damn foot fetish around here or what?" Gladio mutters to no one in particular.

But Cor is right about his shirt. A combination of a bumpy ride and a short stair climb have him sweating bullets. He hefts the bag onto the couch and paws through it until he finds a black tank top. A hell of a lot easier to manage than a T-shirt. At least his target had the decency to shoot him in his non-dominant arm.

He slips the sling over his head and pulls his arm out of the thing, grabs the back of his T-shirt with his good hand . . . and winces. _Fuck, fuck, fuck . . ._

A deep breath. A struggle. The material peels its way from his damp skin with far too much effort, leaving him sweating and panting as if he's run a good ten miles without a break. A shock of cold travels his spine and he fights against a sudden wave of nausea that forces him to take a seat on the floral fuckery of a couch.

The bottle sits on the coffee table. Beckoning. Mocking. He flips it the middle finger and tosses the tank top back into the bag. Fuck this whole shirt-wearing shit.

After securing his arm in the sling once more, he meanders into the kitchen, takes a quick inventory of the food. Chicken, veggies, some ground beef . . .and a carton of Cup Noodles. The corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. Cor knows him too well.

Not to mention, it's easy as hell to make with one arm. A few minutes of boiling water and a little soak later, dinner is served. Gladio sits at the table, palms a pair of chopsticks, and settles in.

From the stairwell comes the sound of footsteps, a jingle of keys, and the protesting creak of a door. A rustle of bags. Footfalls on aging hardwood.

Gladio tilts his head. Cor had mentioned the house was sectioned into apartments, but he hadn't mentioned other visitors. Who else even knew about this place, anyway? It's not like it was on the map.

And man, are the walls thin as hell.

Pretty much every move his neighbor makes is audible from dropping the keys on the table to moving into the kitchen to put away whatever it is that they're carrying. Or maybe Gladio's hearing is just too finely tuned for his own damn good. Not like it didn't come with the job. It is not until his neighbors retires to the back of the apartment that Gladio stops being able to hear him walking and moving around. The soft tinkle of piano keys wafts from the other side of the wall in place of movement, a wistful and almost sad melody. Was it being played or just listened to? Not like Gladio knows enough about music to tell. Still, whatever it might be is oddly soothing and he finishes his "dinner" and drags himself to the bedroom for a rest. Or maybe just some growling.

At least the bed is enormous and inviting enough, all carved with huge posts and some kind of bars connecting them. Maybe for a canopy or something at one time. But whatever, all he cares about is if the mattress is comfortable. He flops down atop the duvet and sprawls out as much as his damn shoulder will allow. The sling isn't exactly comfortable, but he makes do with it via a few propped up pillows and little bit of shifting around.

His eyes drift shut, the whir of the fan a comfortable, lulling nuance that nearly drags him into sleep immediately. Or at least until the sharp sound of a sneeze from the other side of the wall snaps him out of it. And another. And another.

_Well, damn._

A fourth follows less than a minute later and Gladio tilts his head back, eying the wall with a raise of one eyebrow.

"Bless you over there," he says to the aging wallpaper.

A pause he can almost feel follows before a quiet "thank you" is issued from the other side of the wall. Obviously male. Some kind of posh-ass accent, too.

His neighbor opens and closes a drawer or two and wanders back to the other side of the house, accompanied by a few more sneezes and what sounds like a well-placed curse at one point. Gladio chuckles.

Somewhere from inside the apartment, the piano music resumes and Gladio is now certain it is, in fact, not a recording. The man is definitely playing whatever it is himself. With a sigh, Gladio closes his eyes again. Maybe the guy will keep playing long enough for him to ignore his throbbing shoulder and pass the fuck out.

The fan whirs, the plaintive strands of whatever the guy is playing a nice counterpoint to the white noise. Gladio takes a deep breath. Exhales. Repeats. Sweat beads his brow, threatening to trickle into his ear and the Cup Noodles feel like a ball of lead in the pit of his stomach. A hint of a groan escapes him. The first few days are always the worst with a wound like this. It'll pass. Eventually.

 

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis's neighbor certainly isn't what he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got HELLA LONG, so I split it up into two parts. What can I say, Iggy is long-winded!

The morning sky is a sight to behold. Rays of golden orange and the brightest pink peek through the branches of the tree-riddled horizon. Ignis is, of course, up before the day has broken, but witnessing the splendor of the rising sun never grows old. If only his contentious body would allow him a moment of reprieve from all of that "natural beauty."

The phone in his pocket buzzes and he jerks it free, swiping the "answer" button without so much as a glance at who it might be.

"Scientia," he says.

"Ah, Ignis." The jovial, familiar voice of his employer is a strange relief amongst all the silence. "How are you this fine day?"

"Spectacularly allergic," Ignis says in his brightest conversational tone. "And you, sir?"

A chuckle from the other end of the line. "I had no idea such things plagued you."

"Well, that makes two of us, then," Ignis says. "Although I did sleep quite well, all things considered."

"Most excellent news." Regis's voice softens just a touch. "Do try and rest as much as you need to."

Ignis does not tell the other man that his request is akin to torture, that his concerns lie with his work and not so much with his well-being, but given the nature of Regis's tone, he dismisses the thought and forces his voice to remain as upbeat as he can manage.

"As you wish, sir."

"Ignis."

He grits his teeth. "Yes?"

"My son is a grown man. He should have known better."

But Noctis had not. And that was the root of the matter at hand. One would think that a man in his late twenties would at least have a modicum of common sense in these circumstances, would perhaps realize the implications of his lineage and what that entailed, but--

"I know, sir," Ignis says.

"This was not your fault. Surely, you must know that."

Ignis swallows. Releases a breath he didn't realize he held within the center of his chest.

"Thank you for that, sir."

"I shall check in with you again in a few days. In the meantime, do try to unwind, won't you?"

"Of course, sir."

A heavy sigh from the other end of the line. "Ignis, for God's sake, we are not at a formal event. You may dispense with all of this 'sir' nonsense."

"Alright," Ignis says. "Thank you for calling to check in."

"Very well." Regis says. "Enjoy the sunshine and fresh air."

Ignis swipes a finger beneath his glasses and sniffles. _Hmph, indeed._ He bids Regis goodbye and slips the phone back into his pocket. What on Earth was one to do in a place such as this? With nothing to edit and no impetuous youth to chase, Ignis is at a loss.

Ignis tugs a handkerchief from his pocket just in time to smother a violent, unexpected sneeze into its folds. And a second. A ridiculous hitching of breath . . . and nothing.

Right, well clearly, that is enough "nature" for one morning. Or perhaps an entire decade. And to think he had considered having tea on the front porch earlier? Not without a cocktail of antihistamines and a stack of handkerchiefs. The canopy of trees would be best observed from the comfort of his accommodations upstairs, preferably with the window sealed shut.

He moves to pocket the handkerchief, considers the alternative, and chooses instead to keep it clutched between his fingers, an intuition that proves valuable the moment he draws breath. The itching, watery eyes are nearly much as a nuisance as the constant urge to sneeze, neither of which can make up their mind about which is the greater annoyance. At least he can remove his glasses once he has made his way up the stairs. His vision is near perfect without the glasses, save a bit of a hazy discernment when the distance increases. However, with a profession that demands clarity of both mind and eye, glasses are a dependable necessity.

After unlocking the protesting door, he gives it a courtesy shove before it deigns to open. Blessed silence and a lack of blooming splendor greets him and he pockets both the handkerchief and the glasses, stepping into the kitchen to procure a bit of tea in lieu of coffee. One must learn the art of balancing one's caffeine intake with varying degrees of addiction, of course.

He sets the kettle upon the stove and sets about the task of scooping loose tea into the mesh infuser, reaching for a mug and setting it beside the stove. From the other side of the wall, a crash sounds followed by a colorful array of expletives, some concerning particular family members and others cursing the heavens. His neighbor's voice is a rumbling growl of darkness that jumps into a booming bark and it is enough for Ignis to nearly drop the infuser before latching it. He taps the wall with the handle of his spoon.

"Are you quite alright?" he asks.

" . . . yeah," the voice grumbles. "Fucking pots and pans and shit."

Ignis chuckles. "Under attack, are you?"

A bit of muttering. "Something like that."

Cabinets slam. The oven door springs shut. Another curse. Whatever the fellow next door might be attempting to do, he seems to have encountered quite the problem accomplishing it.

The kettle atop the stove begins to whistle and Ignis flicks the gas burner into the "off" position before reaching for the kettle . . . and pausing to deflect another trio of sneezes into the crook of his elbow.

"Excuse me," he murmurs, as if the man on the other side of the wall actually witnesses his outburst.

"Hey." Tapping against the drywall. "You sick or somethin'?"

"No," Ignis replies as he dabs at the corner of one eye with a napkin. "It's just my blasted hay fever."

"Hmn. You sure about that?"

Ignis sniffles indignantly. " _Of course_ I am. It's simply all of this . . . " He pauses, clinking his spoon against the edge of his cup with a thoughtful tinkle of sound. "Would you perhaps care for a bit of tea? This speaking through the wall nonsense is somewhat ridiculous, is it not?"

Silence. Ignis leans closer to the wall, hands upon the edges of the counter, waiting. Well, perhaps that had a been a bit too forward. After all, precious few knew of this particular spot. It wasn't as if people came to the unpopulated countryside to socialize with perfect strangers. Offering tea to someone through the wall was a most unusual introduction.

"Okay."

Ignis arches an eyebrow.

"Door's open."

_Well, then._

He adds a bit more tea to the infuser and grabs the kettle full of water. Surely the other man has mugs. Ignis's own quarters are well-furnished in this aspect.

After pausing to stuff another handkerchief into his pocket, he exits the room and walks into the hallway. As promised, the door beside his own is wide open in invitation. He hesitates only a moment before stepping across the threshold, rapping his knuckles against the wood.

"It's your neighbor calling," he says.

Heavy, booted footsteps from the kitchen. "In here."

The man's voice has a peculiar clarity of depth, even more nuanced than Ignis remembers. Low and soft, with the potential for menace or gentility in equal measure. He pads across the creaking wooden floors, the heels of his shoes tapping upon the slats.

He halts with a short, barely audible gasp. The man is a tower of muscle and ink, broad shoulders nearly twice the width of Ignis's own, a sprawling, intricate tattoo covering not only his back, but his arms as well. Dark hair rests upon his shoulders in casual disarray, the strap of a sling crossing his back, a pad of gauze taped near his shoulder blade.

He glances over one shoulder before turning to face Ignis full-on and the editor must keep the facade of his placid demeanor firmly in place.

"Hey," he says.

Ignis wets his lips and commands his voice to obey.

"Good afternoon," he says a bit too formally.

The topmost portion of the man's hair is pulled away in haphazard ponytail, exposing the chiseled line of his jaw which is peppered with a short beard. A thin scar bisects his left eye, running the length of his cheek and disappearing into hair that lines his jaw.  But it is those very eyes that truly capture Ignis's attention, a deep amber that observes him with a fierce intelligence and calculation so intense that Ignis nearly takes a step back.

"You can set that wherever," the man says, nodding towards the kettle. "I'm sure I've got mugs in here somewhere."

Ignis sets the kettle upon the nearest burner and extends a hand to his neighbor. "Ignis," he says.

Calloused fingers slide into a firm but gentle grip to meet his own. "Gladio," he says. "Nice to put a face to the piano playing."

"Oh, dear," Ignis says. "I do hope I did not keep you awake at all hours of the night. I hadn't any idea anyone else resided on this floor until you, ah, spoke to me yesterday evening."

"Nah," Gladio says. "The opposite, actually. Couldn't sleep. Listening to you helped." A hint of smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. "When you weren't sneezing your ass off."

Ignis laughs a bit self-consciously. "Yes, well. I seem to have been blind-sided by nature. We haven't such abundant plant life in the city limits."

"Hmn." Gladio glances out of the window. "I think it's nice. You know, if it wasn't so damn quiet."

He reaches for the cabinet door and Ignis does not miss the slight wince that accompanies the gesture. So, this explained it, then. Clearly, the man was suffering from a rather painful injury if reaching for something with his good arm was that difficult.

"Please, allow me," Ignis says. "After all, I am the one who offered."

Gladio steps aside without comment and Ignis rifles through the cabinet for a moment before coming away with two mugs, neither of which coordinate with the other, much to his chagrin. And amusement.

"Well, then," he says. "Do you prefer Christmas from 1982 or Mother of the Year?"

A low chuckle. "You should take a look at the bowls."

Ignis snorts. "I believe I shall spare myself the indignity."

After the appropriate squeeze with a spoon, Ignis discards the tea bags and pours the other man a generous serving of the steaming liquid before tending to himself.

"Wanna sit?" Gladio asks.

"Yes, thank you." Ignis adjusts his glasses with a push of one finger and follows his neighbor into the living room area.

The behemoth of a man sinks down into the nearest chair, a slow unfurling of limbs and an almost indecent sprawl accompanied by a low groan of what could be either relief or pain.

"Sorry about how I look," he says. "Hard to put a shirt on with all this crap." He nods towards his bandaged shoulder before taking a sip of his tea, a strange, almost genteel gesture that belies his impressive stature. "Hmm, this is good shit. What's in it?"

"Jasmine green," Ignis says. "A favorite of mine." He pauses with an abrupt stiffening of his spine and sets the mug down upon the end table in a haste, fumbling to jerk the handkerchief free of his pocket just in time to muffle a sneeze. Or two. Three. Great gods.

"Hmmn." Gladio arches an eyebrow. "Maybe you shouldn't be drinking shit with flowers in it, buddy."

Ignis dabs at his eye with a chuckle. "Do excuse me," he says.

"Yeah, yeah." Gladio shrugs his good shoulder, flicking his gaze to the couch where Ignis sits and squints. "That got your initials on it?"

"This?" Ignis glances at the handkerchief before refolding it. "Yes, I suppose it does."

"Kinda old-fashioned," Gladio says with a smirk.

Ignis glances over the rims of his glasses. "Perhaps."

They sip their tea in silence for a moment before his neighbor puts down the now-empty cup and regards him with a slight lift of his chin, fingers scratching at the fine hairs that line his jaw.

"So," he says. "What are you in for?"

"In for?"

Gladio flicks a hand to the room. "You didn't come here for a fucking vacation."

"Mmm, and what if I did just that?" Ignis says.

"I'd say you're lyin'," Gladio says.

Ignis chuckles. Well, the man certainly wasn't one to mince words, was he?

"It's a bit of professional burnout, I'm afraid," Ignis explains. "I was ordered by my employer to take a rest, although I'm not certain as to why he insisted upon this place in particular. Seems to be quite the odd choice."

"Hmph, tell me about it." Gladio scratches at the strap across his shoulder and brushes a stray strand of hair away from his eyes. "So, what's the burnout? If you can't talk about it or some shit--"

"Oh, no," Ignis interrupts with a wave of his hand. "It's quite uninteresting, really." He crosses one leg over the other and sits up a bit straighter. "I am the editor-in-chief at a leading publishing house. Apparently, I've run myself a bit ragged keeping up with the literary whims of a rather troublesome young writer."

"Huh." Gladio rubs at the fuzz on his chin again, an absently thoughtful gesture. "Didn't think book editing could make you crazy enough for the nature nut house."

Ignis suppresses a snort of amusement into a cupped hand. "And you?"

Gladio leans back in the chair. "I got shot," he says.

So matter-of-fact. Blunt. As if such a thing were a mere occupational hazard. And perhaps it was.

"Shot?" Ignis repeats.

"Yeah," Gladio says. "Tried to stop some guy from shooting a client. Guess he got mad about it." He shrugs his good shoulder again. "Ain't the first time."

Well, what exactly did one say to that?

"The first time being shot or the first time you've angered a man with a gun?" Ignis asks with as much polite decorum as possible.

Amber eyes fix him with a stare that is somehow casual and frank. "Both."

 

(TBC . . . .)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gladio has underestimated his pain. And Ignis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a bit of thought over just what Ignis's job might be, I decided to take this in a somewhat unexpected direction, but I think it's quite suiting. I may go back and edit a few things from the last two chapters to add a hint of this and that there, but it should stand on its own, for the most part. I do hope you'll stay along for the ride! (JFC, I wrote this in Ignis's voice. Goddamn it.)

Well. Ignis sips his tea in an excuse to collect his thoughts before speaking. "I confess that I was not expecting such a response," he admits at last.

Gladio waves his good hand. "It's cool," he says. "Not like I go around talking about this shit all day."

Ignis does not miss the wince as the other man shifts, the slight grimace of compressed lips, the fine trickle of sweat the ebbs down the side of his neck.

"Have they given you nothing for the pain, then?"

A wry, almost huff of a laugh. "They gave me somethin'. I just ain't takin' it."

"And why not?" Ignis asks.

Gladio shifts in his chair in an effort to better accommodate whatever discomfort might be plaguing him. "I don't wanna be groggy and out of it," he says. "Gotta be alert in this field."

"Yes, well." Ignis adjusts his spectacles with the push of a finger. "I can certainly understand the need for vigilance, but given your current location, perhaps a bit of relaxation is not only allowed, but expected."

"Yeah, well I don't know how to do that," Gladio says. "Sending me out here isn't gonna make a damn bit of difference."

Ignis could see that. Here was a man who appeared to enjoy a casual conversation with a stranger, but the calculated assessment of his stare attested otherwise. Every movement, every breath, every flicker of emotional content was being catalogued, observed, and graded for appropriateness of response. Even now, his gaze has shifted to the folded handkerchief that rests upon Ignis's lap a moment before Ignis's sinuses prickle, forcing another muffled sneeze out of him.

"Gods," he mumbles. "Do excuse me."

"Damn," Gladio says when he gives a repeat performance. "Bless you. So, you know there's a nurse or caretaker or whatever on the second floor, right? Pretty sure she'd give you something to stop that, if you asked her."

Ignis dabs at the corner of his eye beneath his glasses with a sniff. "Thank you, but I'm not quite that desperate yet. I would prefer to keep my wits about me as best I . . . ." His voice trails into nothingness as Gladio leans forward with a slow tilt of his head.

"Huh," he says. "Didn't think you need your 'wits' to edit shit."

Ignis arches an eyebrow. "I disclosed no such information."

"You always this damn formal?"

"When the occasion calls for it."

Gladio strokes the edges of his chin, scratching at the fine covering of hair that with an audible scratching of nails. "Hmmn, okay." He rises to his feet, mug in hand. "Gonna see if there's any of that flower tea left."

_Flower tea._ Ignis resists the urge to chuckle into his palm. The man is oddly charming in his blunt, almost abrasive way. Not at all what Ignis expected, really, especially not from a tattooed mountain of muscle.

He pauses in his thoughts and sits up a bit straighter as Gladio passes. And one that is apparently unaware of his limitations.

"Ah, Gladio . . . " Ignis makes haste behind him, reaching to tap his shoulder before clearly thinking better of it. "I'm afraid you're bleeding through your bandage."

Quite a bit, actually. A slow trickle of bloody fluid has begun to find its way around the haphazardly taped gauze. If this alleged "nurse" had tended the wound, she had certainly done a poor job of it.

"Am I?" Gladio halts midway to the kitchen and reaches for the spot near his shoulder with his good hand. "Fuck."

"Just . . . hold on a moment." Ignis glances around the kitchen before spying a roll of paper towels near the counter. "Have you any gauze and prep materials?"

"Well, yeah," Gladio says. "Cor sent me a whole bag of that shit." He nods towards the table. "I was supposed to give it to what's-her-name downstairs, but I wasn't paying attention to much when I got here."

Ah, so perhaps the nurse was not to blame after all.

Gladio looks comically over his shoulder, craning his neck as if he somehow expects to be able to see the slow-spreading spot through the pad taped to his back. "Shit, is it going down my back?"

"Not yet." Ignis reaches for the bag without thought, guiding Gladio towards the sink. "But your sling is positioned in such a way that it is clearly continuing to irritate this." He flicks his stare to meet Gladio's own. "Might I make an adjustment or two?"

"If you wanna," Gladio says.

"I'll have to remove your gauze," Ignis informs him.

"Hmn." Gladio sets his hands upon the edge of the sink. "Hope you've got a strong stomach."

He does not bother to explain that such things have never bothered him, but chooses instead to give his hands a quick wash before pausing to peel the tape away from the gauze with careful fingers. The wound is far overdue for new packing, the line of gauze tucked into the flesh all but falling away as Ignis continues to remove the tape.

"You do realize this should be repacked often?"

Gladio grunts. "It's not like it hurts or anything."

"That is hardly the point," Ignis says.

He rifles through the bag with his free hand. _Gloves. Saline. Gauze. Tape._ Yes, someone had indeed considered Gladio's needs, although he highly doubted the man himself was the source of it.

"Just stick a bandage on it," Gladio says. "Guess I'll have to go downstairs and let Nurse Whatever-Her-Name-Is fuck with it."

He should not get involved. After all, it was Regis who had instructed him to conserve his energy, Regis who had told him that one cannot pour from an empty cup, as Ignis had so come to learn on an intimately uncomfortable level. Yet, it is against his nature to refuse someone in need, especially one so clearly devoted to the protection of others.

Ignis knows this feeling. He knows it all too well.

"I highly doubt you can manage the walk to the floor below us in this state," Ignis says. "Now, then." His voice drops in pitch, softens to an almost purring degree. "Stand there and allow me to aid you."

The tension in Gladio's shoulders relents just a touch and he straightens with a slow unfurling of muscle, obeying the command as if it were a hypnotic suggestion.

"Be still," Ignis says. Gently, quietly.

The lowest rumble of compliance issues from Gladio's lips and Ignis smiles. Perhaps he had not lost his touch after all.

He works quickly, distracting Gladio's skin with misdirection of touches and warmth, cleaning the wound with the deftness of a skilled practitioner, repacking the soaked gauze strips, and taping a fresh piece of it over his handiwork.

He adjusts the sling so that Gladio's arm tucks itself to his chest at a more comfortable angle, the strap positioned accordingly and rests his hand atop the gauze.

"Come and sit," he instructs, guiding the man back to the expansive couch.

Gladio is, once again, compliant and without complaint. The fact that there is no resistance to his efforts is all the evidence Ignis needs of just how much of a toll the pain has taken on his body. One trained in the arts of self-defense should never be so trusting of a stranger, even a kind one. _Hmmmm._

"There, now." Ignis says, fingers splaying across the uninjured space between Gladio's shoulders. "Rest will heal you, if you let it. Far better than any medication or surgical repair." He taps the skin thrice with a middle finger. "Are you listening, Gladio?"

"Yeah," Gladio mumbles.

"You shall heed my words, then?"

"Yeah."

Ignis brushes away a lingering piece of dark hair, this thumb brushing the space between Gladio's unfocused, heavy-lidded stare.

"Good. Then, rest."

The man stretches the length of the couch on his uninjured side with a low groan as if he might melt into the arms of slumber with ease, but not before fingers close around Ignis's wrist with a firm, halting grip.

"Hey, Iggy . . ."

One eyebrow arches high at the unexpected nickname more so than the grabbing of his wrist. "Yes?"

"Leave the tea."

 

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gladio spies on Ignis. Maybe he should mind his own damn business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing from Gladio's POV, y'all. Holy shit, he's hilarious! Hope you enjoy!

He has no idea what time it is, only that the sun has moved to the other side of the room somehow, listing through the curtains like some overly curious asshole that can't mind its own damn business.

Gladio grunts. All this carpet and furniture and no one had ever heard of blackout curtains? Some Victorian decor.

He pushes himself gingerly into a sitting position, tensing in full expectation of whatever pain was going to assault him from laying down like a stupid idiot for so long, but the pain doesn't come. Sure, his shoulder is stiff as hell and moving ain't the most comfortable thing, but the searing, sweat-inducing agony is little more than a dull ache.

For now. Moving was probably going to piss it off, but whatever. He had to eat something other than cup noodles eventually. At least Nyx had thought ahead and stocked the freezer with some easy shit. He meanders into the kitchen where a box of tea greets him and beside that, a pan of what looks like . . . what the hell, was that _lasagna?_

He leans closer, inspects the dish and the note atop of the foil.

 

 

_Bake covered at 350 for 45 minutes, uncover, and bake for an additional 15 minutes._

_Please enjoy._

_Sincerely,_

_-Ignis_

 

 

Gladio blinks. The ingredients had come from his own cabinets, all the dishes and packages put away, the meal ready to bake and serve. Well, what the fuck. How had he slept through that?

His stomach insists that he quit standing there like an asshole and just bake the thing, so he gets to it, preheating the oven and walking back towards the opposite end of the living room where the shadows have begun to grow longer. The afternoon is a chilly one, colder than the day before, and he unlatches the nearest window to glance down into the overgrown gardens that bleed into the nearby woods.

Guess they can't be bothered with a groundskeeper or any crap like that, given how many vines have threatened to take over every vertical space they can find. But it is not the vines that hold his attention. No, that would be his neighbor standing in the center of the mess of greenery, still as a column, watching something Gladio can't see. Intently, too.

Ignis glances in his direction and Gladio positions himself near the edge of the wall, waiting. What the hell was he doing out there, Mr. Highly Allergic to Every Goddamn Thing, just standing in the middle of it all like that? The mirror mounted upon the wall is positioned at just the right angle for Gladio to regard the shift in the grasses below, indicating that Ignis has moved and after a tense moment, Gladio peers around the wall's seam, using the curtain to mask his silhouette.

Something flashes silver in Ignis's palm and he tosses it into the air, flipping it casually and catching it a few times before flicking his wrist with a decisive motion. Before Gladio can blink, he's thrown another. And another. The fourth, he spins on his heel and tosses blindly over his shoulder, a resounding thwack following in its wake. He backtracks a good ten feet, takes a running start, and takes a flying leap over the bench near the edge of the grass, cartwheels over a patch of thorny bushes, and lands in a crouch as two more projectiles split the air with a hiss of sound.

Gladio squints at the tree line as Ignis approaches it, six distinct glints of metal buried in the wood in a perfect straight line, one beneath the other. What the---? He watches as Ignis wraps his fingers around two of the hilts and gives them a casual pull, leaving the rest where they are . . . until they aren't. Gladio rubs at his eyes. Maybe he's just too far away to see what the fuck is going on, but there sure as hell isn't any metal shining in the setting sun anymore. In the blink of an eye, it's gone.

Ignis casts another glance over his shoulder and adjusts his glasses with one finger and Gladio sucks in a breath, retreating behind the wall again. It is not until the oven dings, reminding him of the lasagna on the counter that he steps away to eye the food with renewed suspicion. Friendly neighbor, huh? What if this guy was trying to poison him or some shit?

He shoves the lasagna in the oven anyway and hunts for his phone, punching the number for Cor with one hand before swiping it off the counter and bring it to his ear.

"Leonis."

First ring. Predictable.

"You know anything about this guy next door?"

A pause. "How's the arm?"

"Answer the question."

On the other end of the line, Cor sighs. "He's fine, Amacitia. Nothing to worry about. Just a book editor with too much stress trying to unwind."

"Bullshit," Gladio says.

"Look," Cor says. "Your job is to get all healed up, not interrogate the neighbor. Leave him alone and mind your own business."

Gladio's fingers curl around the edges of the rubber protector on the phone. "I didn't ask you to put me here. Now tell me what's up with this guy or I'm gonna go over there and ask him myself."

"What's your problem, Amacitia? Did he look at you funny? Because most people do, you know."

"My _problem_ , "Gladio grits, "is that you're a sorry-ass liar. Always have been, too. So, fess the fuck up or I'll figure it out myself."

"You're not figuring out anything, got it?" Cor's voice is threaded with steel and Gladio comes to involuntary attention. "That's an order. You understand me?"

Gladio holds the phone away from him and blinks at the screen, as if Cor can see his ass or something. What. The. Fuck.

"He made me lasagna," Gladio says, as if this fact somehow explains everything.

"Lasagna?" Cor repeats.

 _"Lasagna,"_ Gladio says. "A whole pan. Who the fuck does that, huh? Just leaves it on the counter with baking instructions and shit."

He could have sworn the other man was laughing at him. Cor? _Laughing?_ Not a fucking chance.

"So, eat it," Cor says. "We'll be in touch."

The other end of the line goes dead and Gladio stares at the thing as if it has betrayed him, resisting the urge to pitch it across the room. Yeah, _somebody_ knew some shit and _somebody_ wasn't talking. Damn, he hated that.

The scent of slow-melting cheese and sauce wafts from the oven, fragrant and enticing. Well, if he was gonna die, at least it would be a tasty death, from the smell of it. He scratches the skin beneath the strap of his sling and decides to attempt a shirt again, if only to keep the thing from sliding around. No matter how "comfortable" the padded strap was supposed to be, it was a lie. A big one.

He shuffles to the opposite end of the living room again where his still-packed suitcase rests against the end table and sets about the task of kneeling down to unzip the thing with one hand. Rifling through it is easier than fucking with the zipper and he jerks a black t-shirt free of the bundle with his good hand and rises to his feet.

He slips the strap over his head and winces in expectation, but the pain doesn't come. His arm is stiff and swollen, but cooperative enough for him to struggle into the shirt and readjust the strap. Not too bad. And kinda weird that it wasn't.

Curiosity gets the better of him and he parts the sheer-as-fuck excuse for curtains and peers into overgrowth below once more. Ignis is still there, minus the acrobatics, sitting on one of the stone benches and watching as the sun sinks towards the horizon, sans glasses, posture straight and attentive. Beside him, the tall grasses wave, the slow-dying leaves upon the trees tremble and clatter in the grip of impending autumn, and the breeze carries the promise of chilly evening through the open window.

It is not until the sun has drifted below the tree line that Ignis so much as moves, but he does not return at once to the rambling house. Instead, he stand up straight, peering towards the woods with a purposeful stare before gesturing like some kind of conductor or something. Walks a few steps. Does the same thing. Walks a bit more. Does the same.

Gladio squints. What the hell was that guy doing?

After walking the perimeter of the garden and waving goodbye to all the trees (or whatever), Ignis hops lightly over the bench, skirts the edges of a log supporting a bed of decaying flowers, and walks along the impossibly narrow ledge of the fountain before vanishing from Gladio's sight.

He frowns, stroking the short hairs of his beard with an absent scratch of fingers. If he had to guess, he'd figure Ignis to be about his age, maybe a little bit younger. At 33, Gladio was still a force to be reckoned with, a solid stack of muscle and fitter than most guys a decade younger. Flexibility had never really been his thing, but some of the Shield guys were pretty damn nimble in their 30's.

But not like that. Not cartwheeling over a bench and doing back handsprings around the yard. With six knives. What the fuck.

Footsteps cause the aging wood of the stairs to creak and the door near his own clicks shut with a mild protest of hinges. A few moments later, soft strands of music from the piano take the place of the silence and Gladio runs a hand through his hair.

"Book editor, my ass."

 

 

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gladio wakes up from a nap and something . . . or someone . . . isn't quite right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept intended to switch POVs between chapters, but sometimes? They just don't shut up. I had SO MUCH FUN writing this one! I hope you like it!

Three plates of lasagna and barely passable bath later, Gladio has managed to make himself a drowsy mess who doesn't even bother to comb his unruly mane into submission before face-planting on to the spacious bed. If he'd been poisoned, at least he'd die clean and full.

The wound has not yet begun to throb with his activity level and he takes the opportunity to slip deeper into relaxation, something he hasn't felt in a good week since the damn shooting fiasco. What had happened to that asshole convict, anyway? Supposedly, Nyx had shot him, but no one could find the bastard afterwards. Blood on concrete with a trail that led to nowhere and an empty jacket at the end of an alleyway was all that had been left. It was some weird, cryptic shit. Bleeding men didn’t just vanish into thin air. He’d had help somehow. Someone must have been waiting somewhere. They’d missed it. And that was probably what bothered Gladio the most. He didn’t just “miss” things. Aside from his father, Gladio was possibly the most observant Shield member out there. Nothing escaped his scrutiny. Nothing.

And then, there was matter of not finding a weapon at the scene. Nyx claimed he’d shot the guy in the spine, dead center. Just how he’d held onto a gun, ran, and then consequently escaped didn’t add up. Maybe Nyx should have shot him again.

Gladio grimaces at the thought. He didn't really like guns in the first place. The things never felt right in his mitts, no matter what size or shape they were. He preferred fists over bullets. Or improvised weapons. Broken bottles were an interesting and deadly choice.

From the opposite end of the bedroom, curtains flitter in the cold night air, but he can't be bothered to get up and close the window just yet. He'd start freezing his ass off eventually and that might motivate him to actually do something about it. Maybe. For now, he'd deal. Cold weather may not agree with his sinuses, but it sure agreed with the rest of his body. Nice not to be drenched in a light sweat for once.

But the lamp is another story. The light from beneath the shade is a dull headache instigation and he manages to pull the cord to shut it off before flopping back atop the sheets with a sigh. It'd be great if his neighbor would play some Beethoven or some shit, but he hasn't heard a peep out of the guy since before his bath. Either he was off waving at the trees again or he'd sneezed himself into a coma or something. Whatever the reason, it was quiet. Too damn quiet.

And that shit was making him uneasy. He reaches for his phone and taps the side, but gets a red flash of a battery light instead.

"Well, fuck you, too," he mumbles.

Better get up and charge it. Never know when Shield might call for him for whatever reason. Some rookie might do something stupid. Or some seasoned professional.

He struggles into a sitting position and fumbles for the cord on the lamp again, cursing a blue streak when the little fucker decides to break off in his hand instead of turn on the goddamn light. Perfect. Dead phone, dead lamp, bum arm. That oughta make fumbling around in the dark shitloads of fun.

His fingers find the edge of the mattress as his vision adjusts to the black-as-hell room and he swings his legs over the side, bare feet hitting the wood floor. One step towards the wall. The outline of the wingback chair is within reach, the moon finally emerging from behind the clouds to illuminate the room enough for decent sight.

He takes a step towards the armoire near the bedroom door, reaches out into the moonlit darkness and freezes in place.

_Something isn't . . . . something . . ._

Just beyond his reach is a slab of darkness, an inky black that's ten times blacker than black should have any business being. Gladio blinks. Squints into the space. It's a shadow. A trick of light. No?

Mother fucker, it's a _person._

His breath catches and he assumes a defensive stance, or at least as much of one as he can manage with a bandaged arm and nothing but one fist for a weapon.

"I don't know who's there, but if you're hurtin' for an ass kicking, you're gonna get it," he growls into the darkness.

Until the darkness growls back.

A chill claws its way up his spine. What the fuck?

"How'd you get in here . . . " Gladio says more to himself than to whoever is lurking there in the damn corner.

Or _wha_ tever.

A low, almost inhumane chuckle echoes from somewhere near the bed now. Or the armoire. Or the dresser? Who the fuck chuckles in stereo like that? And that's enough of this shit.

Gladio lunges forward, but his throttling grasp meets only empty air as the inky blackness dissipates into nothingness. Upon the nightstand, the lamp flickers to life and the phone in his back pocket vibrates.

He jerks it out of his pocket and taps the side button, staring when the thing lights up and comes back on. Like nothing had happened. Yeah, no. Not today, buddy. Shoving the phone back into his pocket, he grabs the doorknob and nearly jumps the fuck out of his skin when a knock at the front door sounds, insistent and brisk.

A glance at the clock on the wall add to the confusion, but the knocking intensifies.

"Yeah, I'm coming," he barks and stalks down the hall to front door where he takes a moment to peer through the little peephole thing like a smart person.

Outside in the hallway, his neighbor is waiting, his gaze steady and expectant. At midnight. _Okay, then._ Gladio unlatches the door and cracks it to loosen the useless chain before opening it up.

Ignis's demeanor is calm, but something in his gaze is sharp and intense, the man's eyes a damn near impossible shade of vibrant blue-green behind the lenses of his glasses. Gladio leans against the door frame and tilts his head.

"Something wrong?"

Ignis glances over his shoulder for a fleeting instant before meeting his gaze.

"Have you left your window open perchance?"

What the fuck kind of question was that? Gladio scratches the back of his head with his free hand in a lazy rub of fingers.

"I might've," he says. "What's it to you?"

"The heating unit in this building is quite unstable," Ignis says. "If it runs all evening due to such a thing, it could pose a fire hazard."

Gladio attempts to fold his arms before realizing the damn sling is in the way, ruining his tall, imposing judgment pose, but whatever. He settles for a downward glance and the cocking of an eyebrow instead.

"That's some pretty bullshit you just spouted," he says. "You wanna tell me why you're really here?"

"The _window,_ Gladio," Ignis says. "Have you left it unattended?"

Obviously. It's not like he's standing in front of it.

"Look," Gladio says. "I don't know what the fuck your problem is, but---"

Without so much as a word, Ignis barges his way in and walks with a purposeful stride towards his bedroom, leaving Gladio gaping in his wake. Who the hell did this guy think he was?

"Hey, just a minute, pal!" Gladio storms after him. Sort of. It's suddenly really damn difficult to walk, like his feet are anchors instead of flesh and bone. He struggles against what feels like imaginary mud. Cement. Some shit.

Was he high? No, he hadn’t taken anyth---

“What’d you put in that lasagna, buddy?? _Huh??”_

Ignis appears in the hallway near his bedroom, nudging the door shut with his foot. “If I had the intent to poison or drug you, the effect would have been instant,” Ignis assures him.

Calmly. Like he’d done this crap before or something. But at least whatever weird struggle he’d been caught up in was over. Walking was possible now and he wastes no time in stomping over to where Ignis still stands, intending to adopt a hardline stance, but yet again, the sling fucks that up. Hard to look intimidating with your hand on your damn hip.

“You didn’t come over here to close my fucking window,” Gladio says.

“Except that this is exactly what I have done,” Ignis counters.

Gladio narrows his eyes before taking a peek inside the bedroom where sure enough, the window is shut, latched, and the curtains are drawn.

“I suggest you leave it be, lest you burn down the entire estate,” Ignis says as he adjusts his glasses with one finger.

The guy is telling the truth, but not entirely. Gladio can see that much. His built-in bullshit detector is on high alert, but the half-cocked truth is a pretty good foil. And what’s more convincing is that Ignis fully believes in the weight of his words. He could probably pass a polygraph with that kind of steely calm.

“So,” Gladio begins, scratching at the stubble on his chin with two fingers. “You knew my window was open and you felt like it was sworn duty to come over here and tell me to close the fucker because the place might go up in flames.”

“Correct,” Ignis says.

“Uh huh.” Gladio tilts his head. “And how’d you know my window was open? You can’t see that from your place.”

“It has been open since this afternoon,” Ignis says. He glances over the rims of his glasses. “Surely you recall watching me from your vantage point near the edge of the wall.”

Gladio opens his mouth. Closes it. Well, fuck. He didn’t think the guy could see him from all way up there, much less know what he was looking at.

“I assumed that no one had told you to close the windows, so I figured I had best tell you myself,” Ignis continues. “Now, if you will excuse me, the hour has grown late and I must retire.”

“Gonna cartwheel across the yard some more in the morning?” Gladio says. “Maybe throw some more knives at shit?”

Ignis’s posture stiffens almost imperceptibly, but his expression betrays nothing. “Do _not_ open that window, Gladio.”

For a moment, Gladio considers grabbing his upper arm to detain him or at least blocking the door with his body, but Ignis has excused himself already and made it into the hallway before Gladio can so much as blink. What the ---- he hadn’t even seen the guy move, much less walk the fuck out of the door.

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!” Gladio half-shouts into the hallway.

The sound of a creaking door clicking shut followed by the turn of a deadbolt is his only reply.

 

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gladio is far more perceptive than Ignis could have anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm WAY too excited to get to the next few bits because after that, i have no idea where this story is going to take me and that is the BEST feeling to me! All I know is that it's gonna be fun and I hope y'all will continue to share the journey with me.

Ignis paces the perimeter of the overgrown courtyard in quiet observance. Amongst the patches of dead grass are distinctive patterns of nocturnal creatures, the small footprints of raccoons, the familiar stamp of a buck’s hooves.

And something dreadfully unfamiliar that has no business being there. A myriad of prints, some recognizable and some not. A cacophony of haphazard footsteps, restless and agitated. Ignis furrows his brow, glancing over the rims of his glasses. The threshold did not appear to be crossed and yet, it had most certainly happened. Had the time come for more assertive measures, to ask for permission?

He tugs his phone free of his pocket and thumbs through the contacts, finger hesitating just above Regis’s number. No. Not yet. He would handle this himself.

_For now._

The walk back to the house is a short one, the blustery wind doing little to disturb the carefully crafted spikes of his hair as he navigates the creaking porch and makes his way into the library. Within its confines is comforting familiarity, the scent of weathered leather and paper, the varying colors of dull brown and blues easing his mind into a greater clarity. He walks the edges of the shelves, reading titles, tracing fingers down aged spines. Dickens, Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald. All of which he knows and has read. Some of which he’d very much like to toss into the crackling fire.

He chooses a volume of Whitman’s poetry from the shelf and settles himself into the wingback chair near the fireplace under the pretense of relaxation. But his mind does not allow him to completely immerse himself in the text. He glances towards the window, ever vigilant, unable to unwind.

“Vacation,” indeed. _Hmph._ Nonsense.

In the doorway, the hulking shadow of a frame he has come to know quite well in the past few days approaches and Ignis flicks his gaze back to the text on the page to create the illusion of an in-depth study of the words.

“Hey.”

“Good morning,” he says cordially, turning the page with a careful sifting of fingers without looking up.

The man steps across the threshold and Ignis arches an eyebrow. How had he . . . ?

“Look,” Gladio says. “I’m sorry I barked at you last night.” He runs a hand through his unbound hair with a sigh. “But you were acting fuckin’ weird, okay.”

Ignis closes the book with a gentle thump of leather and sets it aside, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair, legs crossed, back straight, hands clasped atop his knee. And interesting way to begin an apology, but he suspects such is the norm for this man. “I explained myself and acted upon my explanation.”

Gladio has managed to dress himself in a dark grey T-shirt with an emblem stitched atop the right pec, the fabric stretched tight across his chest and arms. The pants are equally as fitted, worn denim that has become thin in spots, frayed at the bottoms and tattered at the seams. And no shoes to speak of. The man looks disheveled, yet comfortable. Ruggedly attract---

_Mind your thoughts, Scientia._

“A bit cold to go about barefoot, is it not?”

Gladio glances at his feet. “You know how hard it is to tie boot laces with one hand?”

In spite of himself, Ignis chuckles. “Yes, well. I suppose it would present some difficulty.” He nods to Gladio’s arm. “How is your shoulder, then?”

“Actually feels pretty damn good,” Gladio says. “Not sure how, but I’ll take it.”

“Perhaps,” Ignis says, “it was my ‘poisonous’ pasta dish?”

Gladio winces. “Hnn, sorry. Like I said, you were acting weird. Then I started feeling weird. It wasn’t like I didn’t have a reason, okay.”

_Clearly._

Ignis adjusts the height of his glasses with an unconscious push of a finger and regards Gladio through the lenses. The man is agitated, clearly uncomfortable with whatever he might truly wish to say. This was more than difficulty with a simple apology. This was something altogether different.

“You seem troubled,” Ignis says at last.

The words are more invitation than observation and the desired effect is achieved when Gladio shuffles his feet, glancing at the rug upon which he stands.

“Guess I’d better go see that nurse, then,” he says.

“And yet, you just said you felt quite well.” Ignis clasps his hands together. “What ails you?”

“Not my body or anything,” Gladio says. “It’s--- nah, it’s stupid.” Gladio waves a hand. “I was probably tired as hell. Hard to sleep much with this damn arm.”

“Indulge me,” Ignis says. “I do promise not judge you.”

Gladio hesitates, runs his hand through his hair again, and stares into the distance beyond the window. “It’s some 5-year old sounding shit,” Gladio says. “It was dark, I was tired, and my mind was probably playing tricks on me, but . . .”

Ignis nods encouragingly. “Do continue.”

“I thought . . . I thought there was something there. Some _one._ Like, standing in the corner. The shadows and shit were just right and I could have sworn--” Gladio shakes his head. “Forget it. It told you it was stupid.”

Except that it wasn’t. Ignis sits in false expectation, poised and calm, as if he hasn’t the slightest idea what Gladio might be speaking of. If it as he fears, lecherous lasagna shall be the least of his neighbor’s concerns.

“Did it speak to you?” Ignis’s voice is quiet in comparison to the crackled of the fire, a coaxing gentility that seems to soothe Gladio’s concern over how ridiculous his claim might be.

“No,” Gladio says. “It laughed.”

Ignis’s eyes narrow to slits of green. “Did he . . .”

The conversation has grown precarious, but there is no sense in ending it now. If it as Gladio says, discretion will become difficult, if not impossible. But where to begin? How much of such things was allowed for discussion? The phone in Ignis’s pocket vibrates with an insistent buzz and he slides it free, glancing at the screen.

What timing. Then again, his mentor was uncanny with nearly all things.

“A moment, please,” he says to Gladio.

Not that it matters if Gladio will grant him permission or not. Ignis rises to his feet and strides to the nearest exit before the other man can contemplate an answer as he thumbs the “receive” icon with a swipe.

“Scientia,” he says.

“Ah, Ignis.” Regis’s robust voice is as clear and cheerful as ever. “Have you managed a bit of rest?”

“I’m afraid not,” Ignis says. “There have been . . . complications.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Ignis nudges the door to the sunroom shut, closing off the curious confusion of Gladio’s face.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Where you going now?”

Gladio has followed him out of the library and down the decrepit steps, out past the dreary fountain full of stale water and leaves and into the overgrowth of the mockery that has the nerve to call itself a “garden.” It is too soon to involve him, too soon to reveal that which should be tested and cultivated slowly, but time and circumstance have not allowed for these things. And honestly, why would they ever? Ignis huffs to himself. Well, the gods certainly had a peculiar sense of humor.

_“Hey!”_

Gladio is now in front of him, having moved faster than Ignis could track. He blocks the way with the entirety of his frame, imposing and immovable as any wall, shoulders squared and chin lifted.

“You gonna stop for a minute and explain to me what the fuck is going on with you?”

Ignis comes to an abrupt halt and fixes his gaze on the other man, a hand upon his hip, lines of irritation creasing his brow.

“Whatever I might be doing is of no concern to you,” Ignis says. “Why must you insist on questioning my every move? I am no bother to your existence here.”

“Because something smells like bullshit,” Gladio says.

Ignis adjusts the fit of his glasses with the push of a finger. “Perhaps that might be your mannerisms.”

Gladio grunts. “You’re a mouthy fuck, you know that?”

“And _you_ are a tiresome meddler,” Ignis retorts in his best conversationally dismissive tone. “Now, if you will excuse me--”

“Wait.” Gladio’s voice is wrought with defeat and weariness. He steps aside, posture assuming a more neutral stance, the flare of his energy dwindling to normalcy. “You know what was in my room, don’t you?”

Ignis pauses, gaze steady. “I do.”

A rolling gesture of the other man’s hand. “Well?”

The fact that Gladio’s awareness had been keen enough to hear as well as see the thing was troubling. Or enlightening. According to Regis, it had been---

“Come on, Iggy. If there’s some weird-ass dangerous shit going on here, don’t you think I oughta know about it?”

It wasn’t as if Ignis hadn’t the permission to speak of such things. The opportune moment was now his choice, but he had not expected it to rush upon him quite so swiftly. Barely 72 hours had passed. Hardly enough time to acclimate. Within the tree line, wind rustles the dying leaves like a clatter of skeletal fingers, the intrusion of biting cold a warning of impending unpleasant weather. Or something altogether different.

“I feel it is my duty to warn you that all is not as it seems here,” Ignis confesses.

Gladio cocks an eyebrow. “Well, no shit, Sherlock.”

“Before I being my tale, I must ask for you patience while I secure a few things. We cannot speak before it is done. And you _mustn’t interrupt,_ Gladio. Allow me to do as I will, no matter how peculiar my actions may seem. Do you understand?”

A slow nod is not exactly the firm confirmation he had hoped for.

“Your _word_ , Gladio,” Ignis says. “And your silence.”

“Okay, “Gladio says with a shrug. “Whatever.”

“Not ‘whatever,’ “ Ignis says. He glances over the rims of his glasses and extends a hand. “Your word.”

Fingers engulf his own, rough and warm, and give his hand a firm, gentle squeeze. The protective energy of Gladio’s grip crackles through his blood, sweeps a chill from his skin, and Ignis uses far more exertion than necessary not to gasp aloud.

The hint had been present upon first sight, but when coupled with a vow of sincerity for such a simple task, it is undeniable. And this man hadn’t the faintest idea about any of it.

“I give you my word and my silence,” Gladio says.

“So it is, then,” Ignis says. He releases Gladio’s fingers with a slow relaxation of his hand. “Now. Close your eyes and turn your back to me.”

Gladio opens his mouth as if to protest, but a raise of Ignis’s eyebrows sees it shut again and he does as he asked without question or protest, eyes closing and presenting Ignis with the broad planes of his back and shoulders.

“Do not react,” Ignis says. “No matter what you hear or what you might wish, remain as you are.” His voice drops to a softer pitch as he taps Gladio’s left shoulder. “Be silent.” And then his right. “Be still.” He presses a palm to the center of his back. “Be invisible.”

It is not until Gladio’s breathing slows to a steady, rhythmic pulse that Ignis walks around him to the tree line. He pockets his glasses and tugs the cuffs of his sleeves to his elbows. Things must be in proper order before any sort of explanation can begin.


End file.
